


Buried Alive

by Artikka



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: A little, Anakin Skywalker Doesn't Turn to the Dark Side, Anakin Skywalker Needs a Hug, Canon Compliant, Double Agent Anakin, Gen, Manipulative Sheev Palpatine, Palpatine Sucks, Slavery, Sort Of, Tatooine Slave Culture, also an au tho, kind of, not willingly in any case, vague references to it more like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:14:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25634890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artikka/pseuds/Artikka
Summary: "Sometimes Anakin gets flashes of what’s going on. There are times were he can almost push through the fog and darkness and take control, if only for a second."*****Or, the au in which Vader and Anakin really are separate entities, mind control is involved, and Anakin spends his years fighting back.
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker & Luke Skywalker, Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker, Sheev Palpatine | Darth Sidious & Anakin Skywalker | Darth Vader
Comments: 48
Kudos: 309





	Buried Alive

**Author's Note:**

> me @ canon: so how can I make this simultaneously happier and sadder at the same time

When he was younger, he used to think that the Chancellor’s office was a bit . . . suffocating, almost. Like the walls were pressing in on him, from time to time, or like he couldn’t breathe consistently, let alone think clearly. As the years passed and his visits with the Chancellor became more and more frequent, he thought about it less and less, and the strange feeling that seemed to accompany the office faded away entirely. 

Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it hadn’t, and Anakin had just pushed it aside, pretending it was nothing. Gotten used to it. Learned to ignore it. Because these were the _Chancellor’s_ offices, and how could anything associated with this kindly old mentor be so _cold?_ Surely, _surely_ Anakin must be mistaken.

Now, twenty two years old with his thoughts echoing messily around him, he remembers what he’d said to Obi-wan the first time he visited the Chancellor.

_It’s so cold in here,_ he’d said, and Obi-wan had given him a strange look because the Chancellor had already adjusted the temperature before their visit had begun, making the offices far warmer than usual to help the Tatooine child fit in (wasn’t that _so thoughtful_ of him, why wasn’t Anakin more _grateful?_ ).

It’s cold in here, yes, as the Chancellor reveals himself to be the Sith Lord who’d orchestrated the entire war and Anakin’s whole world implodes. But then the temperature drops to freezing. The world blurs before him and seems muffled, almost. He can’t think clearly, his thoughts are so _slow. . . why can’t he think? Where is all of this darkness coming from, why can’t he breathe--he’s drowning, he’s being buried alive, he’s drowning, he’s drowning--_

He doesn’t remember how he got out of there, stumbling his way to the Council Chambers--it’s all so hazy. He just knows one moment he was at the Chancellor’s, the next, warning Master Windu ( _who seems so far away, like he’s looking at him from the other end of his battlefield specs)_ , and then he’s somehow. . . back? Again? In Palpatine’s offices? Why is he here? _How did he get here?_

There’s a sharp burst of pain _(but it isn’t his pain, no--what happened to Master Windu?)_ and suddenly every thought he’s ever had about the stifling, smothering atmosphere of the Chancellor’s office _(he can’t think--)_ comes rushing back to him all at once, but maybe it’s not the offices, maybe it’s never been the offices. Maybe it was just the Chancellor, the Sith Lord, all along.

“What have I done?” is the last thing he manages to choke out _(what have I done in every sense of the question) (what is happening to me?)_ , the last words that are his own for years and years to come.

The darkness in the Chancellor’s office buries him alive.

(Are those eyes _yellow?)_

* * * * *

Anakin doesn’t know where he is. There are seconds where he even forgets who he is. He’s floating in a vast expanse of space that’s also stifling and claustrophobic at the same time. He can’t understand it, can’t manage to wrap his head around what _the hell is going on_.

_Where is Obi-wan? Where is Padme? Oh, force, what’s going to happen to Padme? What will happen to their child?_

He’s alone, floating in darkness. He must have been trapped in here somehow, but the last thing he remembered were the Chancellor’s offices and Master Windu (and _dead Jedi? Were there other Jedi there too?)_.

And then suddenly there are screams, echoing around him all at once. Anakin doesn’t know who’s screaming. It could be him, for all he knows. But they sound. . . young. Young like Ahsoka was, when he first met her on Christophis.

_Oh, force, Ahsoka! Is she alright? She was (where was she?) on. . . Mandalore (why?). . . fighting someone (who?), someone important. Is she safe? Or not? Is she dying as he’s trapped here, helpless? Is Padme dying too, alone and scared, in this very moment?_

The screams stop. But it seems like barely seconds have passed before new ones take their place. _(Who are they? Where are they coming from?)_

There’s a voice, all of a sudden, one that sounds achingly familiar. He reaches for it blindly, hoping--

_Padme’s face flashes before him, anguished and choking (no!), and Obi-wan’s there and his face is twisted in an expression of fierce, hopeless grief Anakin’s never seen before, not even when Qui-gon died and Obi-wan barely spoke for weeks. What’s happening? he almost manages to get his lips to form the words. What’s going on, where is everybody?_

He almost gets the words out. Almost. But then the darkness comes flooding back and he’s buried again, their faces disappearing from view as rapidly as they came.

_What is happening to him?_

Was it Palpatine who did this to him? 

His mind rebels almost instinctively at the thought. Palpatine, who cared about him? Who listened to him? Who was kind to him, since he was nine years old and afraid, a former slave in a world so foreign? Palpatine, who is. . . a Sith Lord. Palpatine, who’s been orchestrating a sham war for years. Palpatine, who’s responsible for every death in this wretched war, for the loss of every man in the 501st who’d died fighting. Palpatine, who’s indirectly responsible for what happened to Ahsoka, to everything Obi-wan has been through for the sake of the war, who’s responsible for all the pain and loss the Jedi faced as a whole for these past three years. Palpatine, who--

Who _used_ him.

Who’s been using him since he was nine years old.

All of a sudden Anakin feels sick. Or as sick as he can, as a disembodied jumble of thoughts floating in an indecipherable crushing darkness. 

So _that’s_ why Palpatine showed interest in a nine year old former slave from a backwater desert planet. Not out of the kindness of his heart, not because he saw Anakin as _worthwhile, special._

No. Because he wanted to use him all along.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on that, however, because now there’s _pain._ Incredible pain, the likes of which he could have never imagined before, not when he was a slave and faced beatings day by day, not when Dooku cut his arm off on Geonosis, not when he was being electrocuted, tortured, for the millionth time throughout the war. This pain is worse than all of that combined. It’s how he imagined Maul must have felt, when he was cut in half, if he was also set on fire by a vengeful custodian upon arriving at the bottom of the reactor pit. The pain builds, and builds, and _builds._

He needs it to stop, he needs it stop, he can’t take it, he’d rather _die than keep feeling this pain, let him die--_

And then there is nothing. 

* * * * *

When he wakes up (in a manner of speaking), he knows something is different. He can _feel_ it. If he found his way back to his body somehow, he’s impossibly sure that it would be nothing like the one he left behind.

Well, there’s only one way to find out.

He pushes. He fights the darkness, tries to wade through the inky blackness surrounding him, tries to find his way out of this madness and regain control.

It doesn’t work.

He keeps pushing.

Every day (are there even days anymore? He certainly wouldn’t know) he pushes until he’s exhausted beyond belief and sinks into blessed nothingness. Sometimes he feels like he’s getting closer to an escape; other times, it feels like he could go on and on forever in this maze (this _prison)_ and end up right where he started.

Years must be passing by, he thinks, as he tries to reach a new equilibrium. Sometimes, Anakin gets flashes of what’s going on. There are times were he can almost push through the fog and darkness and take control, if only for a second.

The first time it happened, he was terrified out of his mind. 

He had no limbs. _He had no limbs._

And there’s a suit? And an _Empire?_ What _happened?_

He’s buried again.

The second time, he realizes two crucial things.

Number one, he can’t feel the Jedi anymore. 

Number two, his lightsaber is red.

He realizes with frightening clarity what must have happened. What Sidious must have made him do.

_Is that what I am?_ he thinks bitterly. _A puppet?_

_A slave?_ He tries not to think.

It seems that’s exactly what he is. Sidious’s puppet, with all his personality buried under mounds of Sith power to make for easy control.

He’s buried again. 

Sidious must have noticed something that time, because it becomes all the more difficult to fight his way out. And he’s tired. He doesn’t know how many more years pass with him floating there, with no sense of direction, no sense of time, no sense of anything really.

He’s lonely. He wishes Obi-wan were here, or Padme, or Ahsoka. Hell, what he wouldn’t give for even one of Master Windu’s unimpressed glares.

No doubt any one of them would be doing so much better in this situation than he was. Obi-wan would have figured out what was happening to him in minutes, and broken free of it in even less. Padme would have never let Palpatine ( _Sidious)_ get to her in the first place. Ahsoka would have powered through the darkness and wrenched back control, permanently.

But it’s just him, and he’s weak. Too weak to protect himself, too weak to protect the ones he loved. Weak like the desert boy he thought he’d left behind with a detonator buried deep under his skin.

There’s no use in these kinds of thoughts, he knows. _Don’t waste your water,_ his mother would say, _Or your despair. They are precious, and you must save them for when you have finished the work you set out to do._

Work.

Next time he breaks free, he _will_ get to work. He’ll do whatever he can to sabotage Palpatine’s _(Sidious’s)_ rule.

The third time he breaks free, he wastes no time. He’s in his _(Vader’s)_ chambers, luckily, and he has access to a datapad and to what he needs for slicing. He has access to coordinates, numbers, and all sorts of sensitive military information. And a list of who survived the transition from the Republic to the Empire.

. . . Padme’s dead.

. . . Ahsoka’s dead.

No. _No._

He can’t let himself get distracted, not when he could sink back under any second. _Don’t waste your water, or your despair._ Despair. Despair is for later.

_Alright._ he thinks. _Which of these survivors is most likely to be involved in an illicit rebellion?_

Because _of course_ there’s a rebellion against Palpatine; there was a rebellion against him even back when he was Chancellor and Anakin was blind to his true nature. They may have called themselves a Delegation, but they had seen what was coming, and they had been prepared to fight--

Oh. The Delegation of 2000.

_Senator Organa._

He had always been a friend to the Jedi, even as public opinion and support declined. And he was a dear friend of Padme’s--she trusted him with her life.

In the span of two minutes, each feeling like more and more of a struggle, he manages to set up an untraceable, anonymous communication line straight to the Senator. Vader being unofficially near the top of the Imperial hierarchy does have its benefits.

The information is sent. The comm line is deleted. No trace of the communication is left from Anakin’s end. And the Senator will never know where the information came from. He imagines he’ll assume it came from an imperial defector.

Which he is, in a manner of speaking. Until he’s swallowed up again by the prison that is his own mind.

He managed it in three minutes total.

Now that his task is complete, the incessant pushing and stifling darkness is nigh unbearable. But he also realizes, for the first time, how much he truly hates this suit. The prosthetics are shoddy and clumsy at best, ridiculously heavy and difficult to maneuver. The life support is bulky and he can still feel age old burns, all over his body, that seem as though they’d never been treated at all. And worst of all is the respirator. Does the breathing sound it makes have to be so _obnoxious_?

How did all of this happen to him, anyway? He remembers the pain from what felt like forever ago--it’s no duller as a memory than it was a sensation. Clearly his limbs had been chopped off from what seemed to be a lightsaber _(was it Palpatine, maybe? A punishment of some sort?)_ but what of the burns? Had he really been set on fire, or had he imagined the sensation? Had it been lava or something of the sort? _(he swears he can remember the scent of Mustafar, even if he can’t recall actually being there; had something happened to him there?)_

His flow of thoughts is interrupted by a steadily rising pressure in the back of his mind. It feels like-- _Palpatine. He knows._

There’s a crushing, devastating weight on his mind, the phantom pull of a heavy anger he can nearly taste, then an almost audible _snap._

Then nothing.

* * * * *

When he wakes up, it’s almost worse than the pain he had felt from being burned alive. He had been building up a resistance, able to fight through the darkness faster and faster each time, but now all of that is gone. He feels chained.

Before, he had felt lost and sluggish, buried and drowning. It was a terrible sensation. But now, he’s _chained_. 

He fights back an instinctive bout of panic _(never again, never again!)_ but it changes nothing.

_Palpatine’s slave_.

Nevertheless, he starts over. 

He tries to build back up, bit by bit _(it’s so much harder than before)_ , and he’s certain years are passing again _(again, and again, Padme, my love, I’m so sorry)_.

Sometimes he’s vaguely aware of what’s happening outside. In his weaker moments, he wishes he wasn’t. _(He’s doing a lot of killing)_

He comes to a realization one day _(or night, or week)_ about the deaths he’s been feeling (the deaths he’s been _causing)_. They don’t feel like ordinary deaths. Not like those of any normal sentient being across the galaxy _(hasn’t he felt enough of those, during the war)_. 

They’re a bit. . . louder-- _oh, force, he’s hunting down Jedi._

No _. No._

_How could he-how could he-use me against my own people like this-use me to kill my own people, my own people--like I’m some sort of trophy, like I’m a broken attack dog-I’m not his toy, I’m not_ _his_ toy _\--_

He doesn’t know how long it takes him to claw his way out of the downward spiral. Maybe days. _(his own people, he’s hunting down and slaughtering his_ own _people--it’s despicable--his own people)_

So.

_That’s_ why Palpatine was really interested in him. So he could have the pleasure of using the Jedi’s Chosen One against them, turning him into some kind of attack dog.

He’s never been so disgusted in his life.

_Don’t waste your water._

_Don’t waste your despair._

_Save them for when you have finished your work._

He finally manages to break through again, weeks or months or maybe years later. He moves more quickly this time, compiling coordinates and military plans, setting up the anonymous, untraceable comm line, and sending it all straight to Senator Organa once again.

It only takes him a minute this time.

He slumps back, and the darkness consumes him.

* * * * *

The next time he wakes, it’s to a voice.

_I was beginning to believe I knew who you were behind that mask. But it’s impossible. My master could never be as vile as you._

Is that. . . Ahsoka?

_Then I will avenge his death._

Ahsoka, it is Ahsoka! (but how? She had died, the reports had confirmed it. Unless she had faked her death? Had she faked her death? _Hardeens ran in the lineage, it seemed._ How had she faked her death?).

For a moment there’s joy, unbridled, wild joy, shooting through him, but then he realizes.

_No. No!_

No, he can’t hurt Ahsoka, he can’t, _he won’t (you can’t make me do this). He won’t._ He shoves with everything he has, every last ounce of strength within him. He shoves forwards and pushes the darkness aside, trying to draw from a well of power within him just as he had on Mortis.

_Ahsoka? Ahsoka!_

_There she is, standing right before him--so he was right, years had passed, maybe fifteen years from the looks of it? She’s gotten so tall now, and her lightsabers, they’re white. A brilliant, blinding white. She’s all grown up now, his Snips, all grown up and protecting the rebels. Is it even possible to feel this much pride? They’re almost the same height--he’s been so lonely, for so long. Can she help him, maybe? The two of them could handle anything together, back in the Clone Wars. Maybe she can help him figure out exactly what’s happened to him, help him fight it off. Maybe. . ._

_I won’t leave y--she’s saying something but it’s drowned out suddenly, with a rushing in his ears and a wave rising from within to drown him. Ahsoka? Ahsoka!_ _No!_

_Ahsoka?_

She’s gone.

_Don’t waste your water--don’t waste your water--don’t waste your despair, don’t--_

He. . .

He despairs.

* * * * *

He doesn’t know how long it takes to pull himself back together this time ( _Ahsoka, no, Ahsoka. He promised her he’d never let anything hurt her, he promised her he could never let her die, and now she’s dead. At his own hands.)_ but it’s almost certainly been years.

He’s beginning to doubt he’ll ever break free. Not permanently.

He considers, briefly, trying to rid the galaxy of Vader in a. . . different manner. It’s not like his deprived half life is one particularly enjoyable or worth living anyway. The only thing keeping him going had been the hope that he’d wrench back control for good one day, but now. . . 

It seems like it’ll never happen. And while he’s waiting, trapped, for the next couple of minutes he’s able to snatch, Vader is out there, hurting people (hurting _his_ people _),_ killing people, tearing planets and families apart.

_Enslaving people_.

That sends him down another spiral of deep loathing and disgust, though whether it’s directed at himself or Palpatine, he’s not sure.

Maybe he could rid the galaxy of Vader, permanently. It would be so easy _(his lightsaber ignited at the wrong angle, a push of the wrong buttons for his life support, light damage to his respirator)._

The next time he breaks free, he tries. But he realizes, then, that Palpatine must have foreseen this, because somehow the suit and prosthetics _won’t let him_. As soon as the intent crosses his mind, the prosthetics won’t move the way he wants them to, the buttons won’t respond, and the respirator will stubbornly force air in and out of his lungs at a desperate pace.

It seems they’ve been built to keep him alive at any cost. To protect him _(ha, protect)_ against even himself.

His abhorrent red lightsaber isn’t even useful for _this one thing._

He feels sick again. So even the choice of whether to live or die has been stripped away from him?

_Slave, slave, slave. Palpatine’s slave._

With a tremendous effort, Anakin wrenches himself away from the thoughts.

_Don’t waste your water._

_Don’t waste your despair._

So.

It seems the only way forward is to keep going as he’s been going. Break free for a few minutes, compile sensitive information, and send as much of it to the rebellion and Senator Organa as he can. 

He’s hit by another wave of deep loathing. This time, it’s definitely directed at Palpatine.

Life continues _(this is his life now. He hates it)_. More information is sent, in staggering intervals. For the most part, Palpatine doesn’t seem to sense his duplicity. Maybe he thinks that after what happened with Ahsoka, Anakin is no longer someone _(something)_ he needs to worry about. The information does, however, seem to be making some difference for the rebels. Every time he wakes up, there are more reports of sabotage, failed battles on the Empire’s part, people gone missing _(liberated)_ , places fighting back _(protecting themselves)_ against imperial rule. Most likely, the schematics have been the most useful information the rebels have acquired. He knows enemy schematics were definitely the most useful resource to have access to back in the Clone Wars.

He feels a bit of pride at the thought. It’s easier to manage his reality when he has tangible proof of making a difference. The pride is always accompanied by guilt, of course, his constant companion, but it’s there.

He _is_ helping. He _is_ making a difference. A little. At the very least, the rebels now know _how_ to fight back. The Empire is developing new weapons every day, but with their schematics, the rebels have a chance at defending against them, and exploiting their weaknesses. At protecting the planets that would otherwise be terrorized.

He should have known not to get too comfortable.

* * * * *

The Death Star. DS-1 orbital station. Death Star. Star of Death?

The name sounds inappropriately comical, as if it had been named by a Temple youngling with an overdramatic flair.

Death Star? What kind of a silly name was that? Certainly not one that embodied the sheer _horror_ , the sheer _monstrosity,_ the almost sacrilegious nature of this terrifying, depraved creation.

Built to destroy _planets._

Sometimes Anakin thinks he’s reached a limit for how horrified he can be, by his reality, by Palpatine’s actions, by this new Empire and the evil it inflicts on his people.

He’s wrong, every time.

A weapon _to destroy planets?_

Yes, he’d fought in the Clone Wars. Yes, he’d been one of the more ruthless generals. Yes, he understands the value of might and power and displays of strength.

And, yes, he’s been guilty of slaughter in cold blood before. 

But _this?_

This horrifies him straight to his core. Forget everything he was as a Jedi, this goes against everything he’s ever believed in as a _person_ . Yes, this horrifies the Jedi in him. But it also horrifies the nine-year-old slave in him _(the masters blow us up if we’re disobedient),_ the Clone Wars General in him _(our objective is to protect the people),_ the Senator’s husband in him _(democracy isn’t perfect, but it protects us from tyranny),_ the Negotiator’s padawan in him _(compassion is central to the heart of a Jedi),_ the master to Ahsoka in him _(I want to help my people),_ the parts of him that are and _will always be_ Shmi’s son _(the biggest problem in this galaxy is that no one helps each other. Remember that, my son)._ It’s unjustifiable, in every sense of the word. It’s everything he ever thought he was fighting against in the Clone Wars, as a Jedi.

They’re building a battle station that _destroys planets_ . That could kill millions, _billions,_ with the press of a button. 

How can anyone involved in this project _live_ with themselves? Are the people of the Empire so drunk on power that they’d do anything for another taste of it? Kill _billions_ of innocents?

_(After murdering the Sandpeople, he couldn’t sleep for weeks in horror at what he’d done. How can these Moffs condone this with satisfied smiles and a prideful shrug of their shoulders? How?)_

It’s revolting. 

He has to get information to the Rebellion, somehow. There has to be a weakness, there has to be something they can do.

There _has_ to be some way they can fight this.

Otherwise. . . 

He doesn’t want to think about it. The next time he wakes up, he’ll find the schematics, find a way to get them to the Rebellion, or, if not the Rebellion, Senator Organa and other planetary leaders. He’ll try to find a weakness.

* * * * *

Slipping the Death Star schematics to the rebels _(he couldn’t even send it to the Senator, this time)_ ends up being much more difficult than he had expected. In the end, all he manages to do is make sure a copy is available _somewhere_ , and less guarded than it should be. He doesn’t even manage to take a look at the plans himself. 

_Oh, force, there better be a weakness in this Sith-damned monstrosity._

Usually he won’t be pushing so hard right after breaking free for a time, but he’s desperate to find out what happened to the plans and whether they were successful. So he pushes and fights in a way that would have probably had Obi-wan shaking his head and heaving a long-suffering sigh, but it does pay off. To an extent.

_There’s a young woman with dark hair and eyes holding herself in a way that sharply reminds him of Padme. He can’t hear what she’s saying, but the pure disdain on her face is clear enough to read, and he feels an unexpected sense of kinship and satisfaction at her courage. Her posture might mimic Padme’s I’m-a-Galactic-Senator-and-I’m-smarter-than-you stance, but something in her face abruptly reminds him of himself. Her brows are raised, lips twisted in a darkly amused scowl, eyes darkened with copious amounts of both scorn and determination. Contempt practically radiates off her set shoulders. He imagines that was how he looked facing down Grievous for the first time, snapping out a disdainful “shorter than I expected” at the notorious Jedi-killer._

_She fades away abruptly, but the image stays with him._

She feels. . . important somehow. He wracks his brain and tries to remember who she is, if he’s met her before--no doubt Vader has, but it seems he’s never been able to push through when in her presence.

She looked about twenty some years old, and now that he’s not focused on how suddenly she had dredged up memories of Padme _(that pain is never going to go away, is it?)_ he realizes her hair and dress were done in an Alderaanian style. Something niggles at the back of his mind--

_Oh._ The third time he had broken free, he had spent most of those precious minutes perusing the Holonet to find out what had happened to his friends. One of those headlines, that he had spared but a passing glance, had to do with Senator Bail Organa and Queen Breha’s newly adopted daughter.

The young woman had been _Leia_ Organa. Princess of Alderaan. And she had a spine of steel to match Bail’s, it seemed, although she certainly didn’t seem to favor his subtlety ( _a decision Anakin of all people could definitely respect)._ Another pang of sorrow shoots through him; Leia had been one of the names he and Padme had considered for their child _(though Padme had been insistent it was a boy while he was convinced it was going to be a girl)_. That name had been one of the few things on Tatooine one could consider beautiful, and even then, it was a name meaning mighty, fierce. Everything he would have wanted his daughter to be.

Everything, it seems, that Princess Leia of Alderaan _is_ , although the name no doubt means something different on Alderaan.

He can respect that, even as he’s hit by another wave of sorrow for his unborn child. According to the funeral reports he had read, Padme had died still pregnant, due to complications from a “traitorous Jedi attack”. It’s so blatantly a lie he has to wonder if anyone believed it at all. Of course, this means that either Palpatine had his still-pregnant wife killed. . . or he had Vader do it.

He clings to the idea that this Princess is carrying on Padme’s legacy somehow, as far fetched as it is. It brings him a small measure of comfort.

The next flash he gets is. . . far less comforting.

There’s a sudden aggressive explosion in his mind and suddenly he’s lost himself, trying to block himself off from _so much pain, so much death, so much suffering, but none of it’s his own._ _He’s feeling the pain of thousands, millions, maybe billions all at once._ Amongst the echoes of pain and pure terror, he notes rather deliriously that, for once, he’s glad not to be in control of his own body. Had he been in control, Vader would have dropped to his knees right then and there in front of the viewport, and not even the respirator could have made him keep breathing _(or maybe that would have been a good thing)_. It’s like a rising wave on Kamino, ready to drown him in a way not even the darkness in his own mind can, and then suddenly there’s an intangible tearing and they’re all ripped out of existence and silenced, leaving excruciating, gaping holes in his awareness.

It’s so overwhelming that a physical reaction somehow gets through to _Vader_ even though he’s not pushing for it; his whole body tenses, his legs nearly buckle despite being mechanical, his respirator slows as it tries to accommodate the changes in breathing and heart rate, and his hand digs into Leia’s shoulder where it’s resting--

Wait. Leia.

Alderaan.

He looks to the viewport and--

Alderaan’s. . . gone?

No. _No._ It can’t be.

A whole planet, gone just like that?

Impossible. The Death Star may have been built for this but surely the Moffs would never--how could anyone actually go through with it? They could never, no sane person could see this through, it’s--impossible, he must be seeing things wrong. His vision is unreliable, has been unreliable for the past twenty years, at the best of times, so why should it be showing him the truth now? Just because they viewport is filled with debris--it means nothing, they could never--

_All those people. . ._

_Their pain, their terror. . ._

_No. No. It can’t be, it would never--a planet? Gone? A whole planet? A peaceful one, no less? All those people--the people--_

_No, no, no, no, no--Bail! What about Bail, what about Breha, what about--Leia, what about Leia?_

_How could they?_

It doesn’t feel real. It can’t be real.

A planet can’t have been destroyed.

Millions can’t have been slaughtered with the simple press of a button.

Bail--Senator Organa can’t be dead _(but you felt his death, didn’t you?)_ . Queen Breha, she can’t be dead _(Padme had always felt close to her; two monarchs of pivotal planets)_.

Leia.

Leia can’t be orphaned, twice over.

_Oh, Leia._

_I’m so sorry,_ he thinks, almost as dead to the world as he had been twenty years ago, _I failed, I should have been able to stop them. I should have tried harder._

All he’s ever done is fail, it seems.

Some Chosen One.

He wishes suddenly that he’d never been born. Never given Palpatine the opportunity for such an effective attack dog, never given him the opportunity to tear the Jedi apart from the inside and build the Empire from his ashes. Maybe without Vader at his side, none of this would have happened. Palpatine would have been found out sooner with no Jedi listening to his honeyed lies, the Jedi would have defeated him without Vader’s interference, so many _wouldn’t have died._

His mother wouldn’t have had to raise a child she’d never asked for, a child who she then never heard from again until she died and he was too late to save her. Obi-wan would have never been burdened with him so young, Ahsoka would have never died trusting that he’d never hurt her, Padme wouldn’t have died without an unborn child to look after.

_Your water,_ he suddenly hears the lilting cadence of his mother’s voice, _you’re wasting your water._

_Ani, my son, you must save your water, and your despair, for when your work is finished._

_How,_ he wants to ask, _how can I go on? Every time I try to fix things, it just gets worse and worse. How can I continue my work when it seems like my work is doing nothing?_

_You continue your work,_ his mother’s voice says, firmer this time, _until you’ve finished your work, or until you can work no longer._

Until you’re dead, she doesn’t say.

_I miss you,_ he’d say to her, if she was truly real, _I miss you. I need you._

_Shhh, my son. I am always with you._

It could be entirely a product of his imagination, but his spirit feels lighter all the same.

_Alderaan will be avenged,_ he vows Leia, knowing there’s no way she can possibly hear him, _Your father will be avenged. Your mother will be avenged._

_If it comes down to it, I’ll find a way to tear this station apart myself._

_Somehow._

* * * * *

There’s something big going on, he can feel it, _(that presence feel so familiar)_ and he’s trying to push through out of the darkness ( _I can’t take another Ahsoka, please, no)_ and then the darkness multiplies _(there’s something Palpatine doesn’t want him to see--)_ and he’s being buried, he’s being suffocated, he _can’t breathe (not that he usually can anyways),_ but he _can’t_ and the moment passes, and he’s left floating aimlessly in the blank infinity slowly consuming him.

The next time he wakes up, it’s to Obi-wan Kenobi’s lightsaber lying in his chambers.

He feels sick to his stomach. 

Or at least what’s left of it.

_Oh, Anakin,_ says Obi-wan’s crisply accented voice from somewhere lightyears away, _you’ll be the death of me someday._

_I didn’t want you to be right, master._ Anakin thinks blankly, _But you always did like being right._

He’s numb.

So numb.

When his mother died, he had raged. Raged and raged and raged at the world around him until he had very nearly torn it apart. He’d felt such anger he was sure he would never feel anything else again.

When Padme had died, he had felt sorrow. Deep, bone-crushing sorrow, for her, for their unborn child, for everything she fought for and the legacy she’d never be able to leave behind. 

When Ahsoka had died, he had felt guilt. So much guilt it was unbearable, the sharp edges of broken promises and words never said, the jagged pain of so _much_ that he should have done for her but would never be able to.

But Obi-wan’s death seems to have taken away his ability to feel anything at all, ever again.

_What is the galaxy, without Obi-wan Kenobi?_

_Who am I, Anakin Skywalker, without Obi-wan Kenobi?_

Nothing. They were nothing, there was nothing left in this galaxy, nothing--

_Why didn’t you kill me, Master?_ he thinks blankly, an edge of hysteria creeping in on his thoughts, _Why didn’t you kill me--you were my Master, you_ taught _me how to fight, you knew me better than anyone in this galaxy--why couldn’t you kill me?_

_How could you let me kill you?_

Distantly, he realizes Obi-wan would have probably been his last hope for an escape from this misery. If there was anyone in the galaxy who could have defeated Vader _(who could have beaten Anakin),_ it was him. But it seems he was wrong. He’s still alive, and Obi-wan is dead. 

_How can he be alive when Obi-wan is dead? It seems fundamentally against the laws of this universe; hadn’t they agreed without words that when they went out, they’d go out together?_

Once, he would have been thrilled to finally be able to beat his master ( _mentor, friend, best friend, brother?)_ in a duel.

Once, Obi-wan would have said that it was every master’s wish for their student to grow to be better than him.

Somewhere, buried in some remote, faraway corner of his mind, a part of him is laughing at the irony. For the first time, Anakin Skywalker well and truly feels as empty as the darkness surrounding him.

He descends into apathy.

* * * * *

He feels it when the Death Star is destroyed, but he can’t find it in him to be triumphant. There’s a passing sense of relief, but nothing more. _Was this the price? Obi-wan’s life for the destruction of this mechanical monstrosity? (he doesn’t even know what Obi-wan looked like when he died; he’ll always be immortalised in his memory as he had looked in those final days of the Clone Wars)_

It doesn’t seem worth it.

Rationally, he knows he shouldn’t be thinking like this. To trade one life for millions would be a heinous act in every sense of the word. If he had made a trade right here and now, to bring Obi-wan back in exchange for the Death Star, Obi-wan would have murdered Anakin himself _(or let one of his disappointed stares do the trick; those always made Anakin want to crawl under a rock and never see the light of day again)_ , and not even Vader’s apparently ridiculously overpowered combat skills could have stopped him.

Rationally, he knows this. But he doesn’t much care.

He would have made the trade anyways.

He can’t bring himself to be horrified at his train of thought anymore either; he just notes them as impassionately as he programmed C3PO to do, back when he was still building him on Tatooine. So some hotshot pilot managed to destroy the station; wonderful. Allegedly the Princess was able to escape too, which is also good, he supposes. 

The sense of relief is faint and somewhat dispassionate. He would say he’s happy she’s alive, but it seems like the ability to be happy on any level has been completely sucked out of him.

The darkness around him ebbs and flows, pushing and pulling at the pieces left of his consciousness as if it realizes it could probably pull him apart for good and he’d offer little resistance. He imagines he can feel the threads of Palpatine’s presence woven through it, delighting in the fact that after so many years, his perfect little puppet is finally broken.

He can’t even summon the usual loathing at the thought of the man’s name.

_Perfect little puppet._

_Finally broken._

* * * * *

He subsists on spite now.

It’s the only thing that keeps him halfheartedly pushing and hoping to break through. He hasn’t managed it yet, and he doesn’t quite know what he’ll do when _(if)_ he does. Senator Organa is dead. Clearly the Rebellion lives on--the destruction of the Death Star proves that--but who would he even send the information to? Leia, maybe? Surely her father has taught her a thing or two. Maybe she’ll know what to do with it.

Before Obi-wan’s . . . death, _(and for a moment there he had almost convinced himself Obi-wan had somehow managed to pull another Hardeen, but the absence of the man’s presence of the force, which he hadn’t realized was there until he lost it, had forced him to face the truth rather painfully)_ he had been fueled by spite, to an extent. But he had also been fueled by hope, of a better future for the others out there if not for him, and fueled by love too, for the people still out there that he was fighting for.

Now it’s just spite. And halfhearted spite, at that. 

_(he didn’t realize it before, but he had never known how it felt to be completely devoid of hope until now)_

But he keeps fighting nevertheless. And every time he feels the threads of Palpatine’s presence try to constrain him, he pushes harder.

_Go to hell,_ he thinks at them as loudly as he can whenever he encounters them.

_Always so mature, my young padawan,_ his internal Obi-wan voice says in response.

There is no response from whatever force powers Palpatine has set on monitoring him.

He keeps clawing forward. It’s a strange half reality he lives in; he’s never been able to get used to it, no matter how many years have passed. His thoughts are almost permanently hazy and difficult to hold on to, and his senses are partially there and partially deadened. Sometimes he can convince himself that he’s physically there, mechno arm _(well, arms. and legs.)_ and all, in some metaphysical dimension where all he can see is darkness and all he can hear is silence. Other times, it just feels as if he’s asleep _(asleep but will never wake up)._ This makes trying to push his way out. . . an interesting experience to say the least.

(Obi-wan would have been fascinated.)

(Obi-wan would have also never found himself in this situation to begin with.)

Sometimes, it feels like he’s swimming for a surface he rarely reaches. Other times, like he’s trying to claw his way out of a muddy grave. The last time he broke free, it felt like a shadowy maze churning and twisting until he finally stumbled his way towards an exit.

Every now and then, he hears echoes of what he assumes are the voices of people around him. They can last anywhere from seconds to hours. If he’s lucky, he’ll even see flashes or visions of his surroundings to accompany them. _(An icy planet, a dilapidated rust-bucket of a ship speeding into hyperspace, a helmeted bounty hunter with a significant resemblance to Jango Fett)_

Sometimes they’re interesting, but most of the time it’s just the voices of egoistical Moffs, Admirals, and Captains, who seem, rather rationally, to be frightened of him. He swears he’s heard the name Skywalker recently though, which is strange. He’s the only Skywalker of enough renown to be discussed by the Empire _(Padme had never taken his name in any capacity, so it couldn’t be her)_ , but in the Empire, talk of Jedi seems to be looked on unfavorably, to say the least. Officially speaking, Anakin Skywalker is dead, and Imperial personnel don’t seem like the types to reminisce about the past on the job. _(he’s also positive that, with the exception of Palpatine, few if any are aware of the fact that Darth Vader and Anakin Skywalker share the same body)_

A voice filters in, then, interrupting his flow of thoughts. He recognizes Vader’s mechanical tones _(and isn’t it strange to hear “himself” speak without feeling his mouth move),_ and a youthful voice that responds with increasing anger. 

_You murdered my father!_

_Ah_ , he thinks with a touch of sympathy, _I’m afraid Vader does a lot of that sort of thing._

He misses what Vader says next, but it’s no doubt some kind of taunt. He wonders who this kid is, and finds himself hoping he makes it out of here alive _(not many who face down Vader do)._

The kid’s face suddenly flashes before him-- _blond hair like Anakin used to have, back when the sun was constantly bleaching it on Tatooine, and blue eyes that do, come to think of it, also match Anakin’s own shade, to an extent. Something in the kid’s face reminds of Leia, however. He doesn’t know what. Maybe this kid is a Tatooine native? If so, he feels even more sympathy for him--to grow up in the most desolate corner of the galaxy, lose his father, and now face Vader? He can’t be more than twenty from the looks of it, with a bright and shining presence in the force, and--_

_Oh. Oh, that smarts._

_The kid’s had his right hand cut off at the wrist, and his face looks to have taken a beating as well. He’s barely hanging off the air shaft Vader has cornered him on to. If Anakin could feel his own limbs at all, he’s sure they’d be throbbing in sympathy. He’d lost his first limb to Dooku at around this kid’s age._

_Now the kid’s yelling something about impossibility and lies, and Vader says something that Anakin again doesn’t catch in return. The kid’s face screws up and--No, wait!_

He’s gone. The kid jumped.

_Congratulations,_ Anakin thinks bitterly at the presence controlling his body. _You’ve added another twenty-something year old to your kill list. Are you proud?_

He wonders vaguely what Vader had told him that had been so terrible that had the kid jumping off the air shaft to commit suicide---no, wait. He doesn’t know the kid, doesn’t even know his name, but he can still feel that presence ( _that’s strange. Why?)._

He doesn’t know how he managed it, but the kid survived.

_Well. That’s something, at least._

* * * * *

He manages to break free for the first time in what must have been a few years, for a couple of minutes, after the strange encounter on Bespin.

He’s. . . 

Well.

He’s solved the Skywalker mystery.

Luke Skywalker. Native Tatooinian. Prodigiously talented pilot, made the shot that blew the Death Star into pieces. Poster boy of the rebellion. There are whispers of him being a Jedi. And he has a bounty on his head, for a number of credits so high Anakin can barely believe his eyes. A bounty. . . placed by Darth Vader himself.

_“Yes, yes,” Padme says, laughing and swatting at him playfully, “Leia is a lovely name for a girl. But if it’s a boy--and my motherly intuition says it’s a boy--”_

_“I’m telling you, it’s a girl,” Anakin says, unable to keep the joy out of his voice. He’s almost deliriously happy; there might be a war going on, the Republic and the Jedi might be falling apart day by day, but he and Padme are going to have a_ child. _A child! “My mystical Jedi senses say so.”_

_“Your mystical Jedi senses--”_

_“And I’m telling you right now, she’s going to have lovely brown hair and eyes just like her mother, I can see it now.”_

_“Flatterer.” She takes a deep breath. “If it’s a boy, I like the name Luke.”_

_“Luke,” he says, turning the name over on his tongue. It’s a beautiful name; light and airy. It reminds him of his mother’s singing in the evenings, when he was young and her lullabies were the only thing that would soothe him. “Is it a Naboo name?”_

_Padme nods, biting her lip and looking off to the side. It seems she’s thought a lot about this. “Yes. It means light.” she looks up at him almost shyly. Clearly the name has wormed its way into her heart. “Do you like it?”_

_“I love it.” he says truthfully, “Luke.” He smirks up at her again. “It’s going to be a girl, though.”_

_“Oh, shut it, you.” Her gaze turns distant. “I want him to be a Skywalker.”_

_“A. . . Skywalker? You want her to take my name?” He’s genuinely baffled. His name? A Tatooine slave’s name? He would love for his mother’s name to be carried on, sure, but Padme’s last names, both of them, carry so much more prestige._

_“Amidala is the last name of a persona. A politician. It’s not real. And Naberrie is a name I haven’t called my own for years. But Skywalker. . . Well. We can honor your mother. And it’s a beautiful name. Wouldn’t you want your child to walk the stars?”_

_He can feel tears building, somewhere in the corner of his eyes. Padme might be the one that’s pregnant, but it seems that he’s the one who’s been getting emotional these past few days. He chokes out a laugh. “In the running to become a poet, Senator Amidala?”_

_She lets out an uncharacteristic snort at that. “If only pretty words worked as well on my fellow Senators as well as they did on you.”_

_They’re slowly heading towards the door; neither wants to let the other go but they both know he has to head back to the Temple soon. This is one of the softer, quieter moments that they’ve shared, that they’ve gotten so few of throughout the war. He turns to look at her._

_“Luke Skywalker.” he says. “It’s beautiful.”_

Luke Skywalker. . . is the boy who confronted Vader just a few weeks ago.

Luke Skywalker. . . is his _son_.

He _has a son_.

For at least a few minutes, blank shock is all he feels. He barely notices himself sinking back under into oblivion and losing control of his body once more; it pales in significance.

A son. _A son._

Oddly enough, the first thought that makes it past his shell shocked state is that Padme had been right. 

_Motherly intuition. . . And I had been so sure it was going to be a girl._ he thinks, rather joyfully. _Guess you were right. You were right._

_You were right._

The next thoughts that worm their way past him are of a more confused variety. He had been so sure Padme had died--no, he _knows_ Padme is dead. He can feel it _(it’ll never stop hurting)._ But the child had somehow survived? How? Palpatine would have never let the child live; he would have seen Luke as too much of a threat. And Padme had died just days after Palpatine had started puppeting him.

So she had died in childbirth, then? Just like in his dreams? 

And she must have kept Luke a secret. Protecting her family till her very last breath.

Her bravery had been passed down to their son, it seemed. _(He had clung to the idea of Princess Leia carrying on Padme’s legacy somehow, but it seems that had been unnecessary. She had Luke, they had Luke, their son, their actual son, to carry on her legacy, to keep bits and pieces of Padme alive in a universe that would be so lacking without them. He wonders if perhaps Luke and the Princess know each other, in the rebellion. He imagines they’d be good friends)_

_Facing Vader. . ._

Or maybe Luke just sported Anakin’s own reckless streak.

He wonders, vaguely, if Obi-wan had known before he died. Obi-wan had certainly known about him and Padme. Maybe he had known about Luke as well? Maybe he had even been the one to teach Luke, the reason Luke had been able to hold off Vader as long as he did.

On second thought, he realizes how cuttingly painful that would have been for Obi-wan to go through. The son of his dead close friend and other close friend turned supposedly-mass-murdering traitor? That. . . would have hurt. As much as he wishes the two could have met, he also hopes Obi-wan was spared from such pain.

His _son. His son._

And twice the pilot he ever was already, it seemed.

_“You know,” he had once said to Padme, “some would say my piloting skills are dashing.”_

_His internal Obi-wan voice and Padme’s own response had been eerily in sync for once, replying, “Anyone who’s ever gotten in a ship before with you would know otherwise.”_

_Ha. Ha! Take that, “Emperor”._ he thinks loudly at those threads of Palpatine’s presence, as maturely as he usually does, _My son blew up your Death Star. My son. My son blew up your Death Star. Ha!_

He doesn’t deserve to be proud of Luke, he knows it, but he’s proud anyways. So ridiculously proud.

And he was brave. So brave. To take on Vader and not blink an eye? To lose a hand _(and, oh, that just got so much worse),_ and push himself off an air shaft without blinking? To _survive_ that fall? 

_That’s a Skywalker move if anything._

To take on Vader. . .

Oh. _Oh. Oh._

_“You murdered my father.”_

_“No, that’s impossible!”_

_Oh._

So Luke had also. . . been under the impression that Vader and Anakin Skywalker. . were two entirely separate entities _(he had thought Vader had murdered Anakin? Well, he supposes that’s true, from a certain point of view.)._

Vader hadn’t been taunting him, like Anakin had originally assumed. 

Vader had told him the truth.

_Well. Force damn it._

_I’m sorry, Luke._

To whatever force-damned twisted powers were controlling him, he thinks, _You couldn’t have at least name dropped his mother into the conversation? He should know he has at least one parent he can be proud of._

That. . . that must have been painful for him.

The wild, uninhibited joyfulness that had overtaken him ebbs away, bit by bit. He’s still happy, happier than he’s been in a long time, and in complete and utter awe (of his son. _His son),_ but reality is slowly setting back in _._

Luke--his _son--_ had just faced down Vader. Which meant Palpatine inevitably knew about him by now, if he hadn’t before.

He was a target. For _Palpatine._

Suddenly Anakin’s horrified beyond belief. An involuntary shudder overtakes him, almost reaches _Vader._ He _cannot_ allow Palpatine to get his hands on Luke. _Never._

Look what Palpatine had done to _Anakin._ What despicable things did he have in mind for Luke, given the chance? 

_Would he bury Luke, too? Suffocate him until he had none of his personality left? No control over his own body? Would he cripple Luke and murder his loved ones until he had no one left?_

_Turn him into his slave?_

No. Never. _Never._ Luke was born free, and he’ll stay that way. Anakin will make sure of it.

Palpatine’s presence has been growing stronger, in the back of his mind. Either it’s a precaution due to the discovery of Luke, or _(more likely)_ he’s been spending more time in closer proximity to Palpatine recently _(that’s worrying)_.

He hopes Luke will do the smart thing and stay away.

*****

Luke’s a Skywalker.

And it shows. 

_Why did he have to inherit my recklessness and sheer stupidity, Padme?_ he thinks half-hysterically, hyper aware of Palpatine’s suffocating nearby presence. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears his mother’s tinkling laughter. He has a newfound appreciation for how difficult it must have been to deal with a child as reckless as him, the sheer _terror_ she must have felt when he threw himself into life-threatening situations. _What is he doing here? Why is he here? What is he doing?_

_Is he out of his mind?_

Despite his overwhelming terror for Luke, his son’s (his _son!)_ presence can’t help but be reassuring, unfailingly bright and steady and pulsing at the edge of his awareness. It’s a powerful, powerful presence; he can finally understand why Obi-wan so often complained about Anakin’s own presence being so _loud_. His son seems to have inherited it.

The presence also feels incredibly close; could Luke be right next to him, right now? 

_Oh, please no._ The _last_ time Luke had been in close proximity to Vader had. . . not gone well. _Oh, force, please let Luke keep his remaining limbs._

Palpatine’s presence is growing heavier and heavier in his mind when he begins to hear the echoes.

_I know there is good in you. The Emperor hasn’t driven it from you fully._

That’s Luke, he realizes resignedly. Luke’s next to him, to _Vader,_ because _of course_ he is. Of course he doesn’t think about the danger, about what Palpatine would give to get his hands on him, about what Palpatine would do to him, given the chance. Of _course_ Luke’s going on a fool crusade to try and reach Vader’s conscience, not realizing that he has none. _Vader’s not real!_ he wishes he could shout. _He’s a puppet, he’s a parasite, there’s no ‘good’ in him, there’s nothing in him to begin with! Just the Emperor’s shadowy powers strung together with chains._

He starts trying to shove his way out, now, _(and couldn’t Luke have tried this damnable crusade when Vader was further away from Palpatine, doesn't he know how much more difficult it is to break free when Palpatine’s so close),_ and the darkness around him convulses and writhes, wrapping around him and trying to pull him under. 

_Come with me._

_You don’t know,_ he thinks, wishing Luke could hear him, _You don’t know his powers, you have no idea what he’s capable of--get out of here while you still can, before he forces you to call him your master too, before he forces you to obey his every command--_

_I will not turn. . . and you’ll be forced to kill me._

The world around him coalesces into chains and jagged edges, digging into the cracks of what’s left of his mind. He can see it now, ending this way. Him forced to kill his own son, Palpatine deriving his twisted satisfaction from watching Anakin break completely and utterly. Or, worse, Palpatine twisting Luke’s mind until there’s nothing of him left, _then_ forcing one of them to kill the other. 

_You won’t do this. I feel the conflict within you._

_You feel me, not conflict in Vader. Me!_ he again tries to shout, struggling against the increasing constraints and heavy pressure of Palpatine in his mind. _And if I couldn’t escape to stop Obi-wan’s fate, or Ahsoka’s, or Padme’s, why would you believe I could do it for you? It’s too late for me, go, go--_

_My father is truly dead._

_Yes,_ he thinks with relief, _yes, you finally understand, now run, escape while you still can,_ but Luke’s presence isn’t dimming, or vanishing, it’s remaining constant and steady while Palpatine’s only grows. Luke’s still there. He’s not leaving. Which means that they’re heading towards Palpatine after all. 

_Welcome, young Skywalker,_ he hears, in the drawling tone of the Chancellor’s voice _(no, no, the Sith Lord, Sidious. The Emperor, Palpatine.)_ and he blanks out in sheer terror. The voice brings back with it flashes of things both horrible and wonderful, of better times and of the reminder that all along, Palpatine had been manipulating him, playing him, grooming him to become the perfect puppet--

Vader twitches.

He’s barely pulled himself back together when he hears the harsh, grating voice speak again.

_It is unavoidable. It is your destiny. You, like your father, are now mine!_

_No,_ he thinks desperately, bile rising in the back of where his throat would be, if he could still feel it, _no, he’s not yours, he’ll never be yours, he doesn’t belong to anybody, I don’t belong to you!_

He’s shoving and tearing at the edges of his mind, trying to find a way out, he _has to help Luke somehow, force damn it, he can’t let this happen--_

The hum of lightsabers echoes around him as he tries to claw his way out. His surroundings are an endless maze, then a crushing tide, then the thousands of chains of the slaves of Tatooine. A dirt-filled grave one second, the haze and fog of endless blaster fire the next, then he’s dragging his way towards a trickle of light shining through the cracks above an endless system of caverns. The sound of the sabers grows deafening, or maybe it’s just his fear of where they’ll hit next that has them feeling so loud. The echoes grow louder too, and now he’s seeing flashes to accompany them.

_I will not fight you, father, Luke says, standing proud and tall at the edge of his vision. An exchange of blows, then he’s performed a flip reminiscent of Anakin’s own fighting style, back in the Clone Wars, landing neatly on a catwalk overhead._

The flash dissipates as a low buzz of anger from Palpatine floods into his awareness, but the echoes continue.

_I can feel the good in you, the conflict._

_Not this again, Luke,_ he’d groan if he could, _You’re putting far too much faith in me, you know._

_You couldn’t bring yourself to kill me before, and I don’t believe you’ll destroy me now._

_Why is he taunting him?_ Anakin thinks desperately at an imaginary Obi-wan in his head, who would sigh and mouth ‘karma’ if he was real. _Is he out of his mind?_

He continues pushing forward, catching another flash of Luke ducking numbly out of the way of an attack and disappearing from sight. _Well, he’s certainly gotten better._

_I will not fight you._

Vader must have responded with an exceptionally cruel taunt here, because there’s a sudden drastic change in Luke’s emotions. A faint worry shifts to frenzied anger and terror, so strong that Anakin actually catches snippets of _thoughts_.

_Sister?_

He. . . what?

What?

_What?_

A . . . _sister?_ Luke has a _sister?_

_“Leia,” says Padme, somewhere far away, “it’s a beautiful name for a girl. It’s Tatooinian?”_

_“Yes,” he says, slowly, imagining a clever, sharp-tongued girl with Padme’s hair and eyes, “probably about the only beautiful thing Tatooine can call its own. It means fierce.”_

_“If we ever have a daughter, that’s exactly what I’d want her to be. Fierce and mighty like her father. But,” she says, grinning mischievously once more, “it’s going to be a boy.”_

_We. . . were both right, Padme,_ he thinks, in deep shock for the second time this year, _There were two._

He suddenly knows, inexplicably, deep in his bones, that Leia Organa, Princess of Alderaan, General of the Rebellion, is his daughter.

_Oh. That makes so much sense._

There’s a sharp, sudden pain around the area his wrist would be, but he can barely acknowledge it, so lost in his haze. 

Leia, Leia, _Leia. She’s our daughter, she’s our daughter, Padme, she’s our daughter. . ._ He’s mentally reviewing all he knows about Leia _(admittedly not much, not enough, he should know so much more),_ going back over the memories of their meeting _(so she is carrying on your legacy after all, Padme, your brilliance lives on in her),_ comparing all the bits and pieces of Leia to the bits and pieces he’s learned about Luke, to all he knows about Padme, even, a little, to what he knows of himself.

_She does have your hair and eyes, and your sharp tongue, and your boundless drive to hold the galaxy together by the skin of your teeth. . . she has my temper, though, I think. And--oh, she’s a General, isn’t she? And that attack on the Death Star. . . that was her plan, wasn’t it? That--that definitely seems like something I would do._

_Honestly, Anakin,_ his internal Obi-wan voice starts again, with a fond exasperation, _wasn’t two Skywalkers in the galaxy bad enough? Now there are three of you, and all three have inherited your penchant for recklessness. The galaxy won’t survive this._

He wonders if Obi-wan knew about Leia. He doesn’t know whether he’d want him to. _(knowing about Luke would have been painful enough--add in Leia, who wears Padme’s face? It would have been heartbreaking)._

Luke and Leia. . . so they knew they were twins, then. Had it been kept secret from them, too? Had Bail and Breha known when they adopted Leia--

His train of thoughts is interrupted by the sound of pained screams.

_Luke’s_ screams.

_No, no, no, Luke!_ he wrenches himself back to awareness, trying hard to break free, push, push push--

_Only now, at the end, do you understand._

_Luke is at the foot of the stairs, writhing in pain as Palpatine’s lightning courses through him, each of his screams shrill and shuddering and a dagger through Anakin’s heart. Vader’s standing next to the Emperor, and--oh. Look at that. He’s lost another hand. This is getting ridiculous, honestly. What is it with Skywalkers and losing limbs? Palpatine is cackling as the lightning increases, but Anakin can feel the rage underneath--whatever Luke had said or done had considerably derailed Palpatine’s plans._

_You have paid the price for your lack of vision, Palpatine says, furiously increasing the intensity of the lightning. Luke’s screams are hoarse and raspy; he’s just barely keeping from falling down the shaft in the room’s center._

_Help me, father, he mouths, and Anakin continues his desperate crusade against Palpatine’s control, please, help me--_

_He fights, he fights, he fights, and it hurts so much more than he could have imagined to try and break free with Palpatine right next to him--he’s buried, again and again, but scrabbles his way back out, Luke’s presence beside him acting as the anchor he never had before--_

It’s as if a veil has lifted. He’s done it, he’s broken free, _he’s broken free._

He rushes forward, as quickly as he can, fighting a dual battle against Palpatine’s presence trying to drag him back under and against the constraints of his own body _(his robotic limbs haven’t gotten any more maneuverable, and now he’s lacking a hand on top of that)._ He doesn’t have time to pull out a lightsaber, to try and access the force after so many years, to pull off any maneuver well-planned or strategic, he has only seconds and he _has to act, now--_

He grabs Palpatine from behind, hefting him over his head as the force lightning is redirected into his own body. It’s pain, pain, _pain, every step is pain--_

He blacks out.

When Anakin comes back to himself, Palpatine is sailing down the abyss _(there’s an explosion as he hits the bottom),_ he’s collapsing at the edge of the shaft, and every molecule in what’s left of his husk of a body feels like it’s on fire, the tremors from the electricity still running through him _(he always forgets how much being electrocuted hurts)_ . He can barely feel Luke dragging him away from the edge; he’s too caught up in his physical pain and the absolutely incredible rush of being _free, he’s free, he’s free--_

Palpatine is _dead._

He’s _dead._

The Empire is finished.

Anakin is _free._

He lets out a euphoric laugh, weak and rasping but thrilled to the bone all the same. It comes out as a burst of static through his respirator, and he _feels_ Luke’s concern. His connection to the force hasn’t been so uninhibited, so unfiltered in _years--_ he feels _alive_ even as he feels his life slipping away with every shudder of his life support suit slowly shutting down.

Palpatine’s presence, for the first time in decades, is _gone._ He has control over his own body again, over his mind, over his mouth and his words--

“Luke,” he says, the words flowing from his mouth like honey even as they come out as feeble gasps through the vocoder, “help me take off this mask,”

Luke looks shocked at his words (he can look at Luke, his son, his _son,_ without having to spend all of his energy fighting for fragile glimpses), and so, so exhausted from the ordeal (he’s alive, he’s alive, Luke’s _alive_ , and free, and will never have to call anyone, least of all Palpatine, his master) he just went through. It doesn’t stop Luke’s mouth from being set in a thin, determined line, even as his frame shakes. “But. . . you’ll die.”

Anakin huffs another weak laugh. He’ll die anyways; he can feel it. The life is draining from him breath by excruciating breath. But, at the very least, he’ll be able to die as free as he possibly can (he’s free, he’s _free)_. He says as much to Luke, who hesitates for a long moment before reluctantly complying with his request.

The mask lifts.

_(he’s free)_

He’s looking at the world with his own eyes for the first time in over twenty years _(without the red tinge of his mask there are so many colors, even in the unending Imperial gray of whatever shuttle they’re in)._ He’s looking into the face of his son with his own eyes for the first time _(Luke has Anakin’s eyes and Padme’s smile, but his nose and jaw are all Shmi’s)._ With the respirator gone, each one his breaths are shallow gasps sending sharp spikes of pain through his chest. He can still feel the life support shutting down, quicker now that the mask is off, until he can’t move at all. 

He’s never been in more pain.

He’s never been happier.

His vision won’t quite focus but he manages to turn to Luke anyways, trying for a smile that ends up rather watery. “Now, go, my son. . .” (his _son, his son)_ “Leave me.”

He knows he’ll die here, alone, but he’ll be alright. He’s free of Palpatine’s chains for good, able to think and feel and look and hear for the first time in decades. These are some of his most joyful moments. He’ll be alright.

But Luke. . . Luke should go. Anakin’s getting that discordant feeling he gets under his skin whenever something’s about to blow; this station won’t be safe for long. And Luke shouldn’t have to witness him die, after all the pain he’s put Luke through. He should go.

He’s not leaving.

His mouth is moving, his face desperate and distressed--Anakin, with a tremendous effort, manages to focus on his voice. He isn’t even looking Luke in the eyes, anymore. He tries to lift them but finds that he can’t _(he’s so tired)._ “I can’t leave you here.” Luke is saying, and Anakin wants to laugh, again, but he can’t anymore, “I’ve got to save you.”

Save him? 

Save him?

_Oh, Luke._

_How can he not see it?_

“You already have,” he says, fighting to drag out of each of his words. _You already did save me, you saved me, you saved the galaxy--I’m free, the galaxy is free, you saved us--_ “You were right about me.” Luke had been right, all along. There really had been enough of him in there to break free. He had thought the only way for it to end would have been with Palpatine still holding the strings, one or both of them dead, but Luke had been right. He had been able to break free. Luke had helped him break free. 

Obi-wan laughs, somewhere far away. Anakin Skywalker, admitting someone else was right?

“Tell your sister--” Oh, _Leia,_ “you were right.”

_You were right._

He’ll never get to speak to Leia as himself, but it’s alright. Luke is there, Luke will get to be with her for the rest of his life, he can tell her for him. He hopes she knows, deep in her bones, that all her parents love her.

Luke’s saying something again _(Father, he thinks he hears),_ but focusing is. . . difficult. He tries to project his love, his joy, his pride, towards him now. Maybe he’s successful. The world around him fades to a blur of colors and buzz of noise.

Anakin’s free _(free),_ his children are free, the galaxy is free.

He’s free.

He dies free. 

* * * * *

_“Hello, Anakin. I’ve missed you.”_

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @ilonga on tumblr, so come ask questions, say hi, or yell at me there! also comments give me life, so drop a comment to tell me if you liked it/what you liked :)


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